The Seldom Seen Kid
by Fool Who Follows
Summary: Sherlock makes a choice; and makes John Watson the most important man in that pool. They won't see each other again for three long years. SH/JW.
1. Prologue: The Seldom Seen Sherlock

Disclaimer: Written for pleasure, not profit. I don't own the songs or the characters.

A/N: Post TGG fic loosely inspired by my favourite Elbow album, hence the title.

21/06/11: Now editing; apologies for any extra alerts that go out.

SHSHSHSH

_"One day we'll be drinking to the Seldom Seen Kid..."_

'Grounds For Divorce,' Elbow, 2008.

SHSHSHSH

**The Seldom Seen Kid**

**Prologue: The Seldom Seen Sherlock**

Mycroft Holmes, aged twelve, was engrossed in an excellent book on the economics of South America when he heard his mother's frantic calls.

He sighed deeply; sometimes, having a brother could be very inconvenient. Sherlock's predictable vanishing act was about due, but he had been hoping to finish the chapter on Uruguayan fiscal policy before the inevitable interruption.

Nonetheless, he dutifully marked his page and stepped out of his obsessively neat bedroom into the wainscoted corridor, along which his mother was checking every door anxiously.

"Oh! Mycroft, have you seen Sherlock?"

"Not since luncheon, Mummy. Would you like me to find him for you?"

"Oh, thank you, darling," she gushed in relief. "I know he always turns up eventually, but I just get so worried… and there's so much else I need to do…"

"Don't worry; I'll dig him out of wherever he's hiding and make sure he's in a fit state for the guests."

"Oh, you're such a good boy, Mycroft. Do make sure you check in the chimney first, there's a dear; I don't dare have the drawing room fire lit until I'm certain he's not up there again."

"Yes, Mummy." Despite his promise, Mycroft immediately returned to his bedroom as she bustled away to prepare for tonight's dinner party. Carefully, he replaced the book into its allotted space on the vast, full-wall bookshelf before he spoke to the empty room.

"I sincerely hope that you haven't made a mess in my wardrobe, Sherlock; because if you have, I will have to lie and tell Mummy that I found you in the chimney, and you know how it upset her last time." Silence.

"Really, you are being exceptionally childish," the older brother chided, feigning disinterest. "Don't pretend you aren't in there, or I shall have to go to the effort of dragging you out."

"What gave me away?" A high, childish voice asked, the sulky tone obvious even though it was badly muffled by the antique oak wardrobe.

"Every time you climb through my window via the pear tree, you leave smears of dirt and lichen on the window sill."

"I do not!" Sherlock protested, with all the vehemence of a five-year-old certain they are right. "I always bring a damp sock with me to clean it off."

"Yes; a sock soaked in hand soap from the guest bathroom, which has a very distinctive lemony aroma. And as the wardrobe is the only piece of furniture in my room large enough to conceal you for several hours in anything even approaching comfort, and I smelled the lemons when I returned to my room after lunch, it seemed a logical deduction."

"If you knew I was here, why'd you let me sit in this stuffy wardrobe all afternoon?" He demanded petulantly.

"Well, it kept you out of Mummy's way while she was preparing for the party; and also ensured that I knew exactly where to find you when the time came to get you ready. It was a very good effort, though." Mycroft tried very hard to sound encouraging rather than condescending; Sherlock was very sensitive about his age.

"I suppose you left the sock in the tree before lunch and as soon as we were excused from the table, you ran through the kitchen door, climbed the tree and forced the window. I'm quite impressed that you managed to get yourself comfortably sequestered in my wardrobe within the two minutes and thirty-five seconds it takes me to walk upstairs. And of course, hiding in a room which had been continually occupied all afternoon would make it the very last place Mummy would think to look."

"Next time, I'll hide in a place _no one_ would think to look," his brother mumbled darkly.

"Really; I don't see why we have to go through this performance every time. Social gatherings are not the worst events in life."

"I don't want to go to stupid parties! They're so _boring!"_

"What have I told you about limited vocabulary, Sherlock? Five synonyms for boring."

"Dull, tedious, dreary, banal, uninteresting: _boring_," he recited scornfully. "I don't know how you can love them so much."

Mycroft restrained a sigh as he turned to regard the polished oak wardrobe door that concealed his highly antisocial little brother. He was probably closer to Sherlock than anyone else, even Mummy; and yet his brother still preferred to remain alone in a cramped, dark wardrobe than emerge into the pleasant, spacious room and Mycroft's company. The last time Mummy had a party, it had taken Mycroft all night to coax him down from the chimney; and he'd only come down then because his brother had threatened his mould-growing experiment with a large bottle of bleach-based toilet cleaner.

"Dinner parties are a necessary evil, Sherlock. We cannot always do only that which we enjoy."

"Why not?" Was the sulky reply.

"Because, occasionally, we must take other people into account. Mummy likes to throw dinner parties, so we must be well behaved when they occur to please her."

"But I _hate_ them; being forced to dress up and be polite to people like Mr Hansen and Mrs Collins who think because I'm young I must be stupid. Last time she came she brought me a _colouring_ book!" From his tone, Sherlock clearly considered this the equivalent of a slap in the face with a duelling glove. "And _you_ tried to make me say _thank you_!"

"It was a very nice gesture on her part, considering what you did to her Labrador when we visited her."

"It had _fluffy bunnies_ on it, Mycroft!"

The outrage in his brother's voice made the older boy's lips twitch, but his voice was perfectly even when he replied. "Yes, I remember seeing the charred remains on the compost heap."

"Stupid thing wouldn't even burn properly," the younger complained. "When I have my own house, I am never, _ever_ going to throw a dinner party, unless it's out of the window." His tone changed from scathing to questioning as a new thought occurred to him. "Why do people say they _throw _a party, anyway? It's not logical; 'throw' doesn't mean 'host'."

"English is not a logical language, Sherlock," Mycroft said smoothly, his mind whirring to pull an explanation out of the air. He never liked to admit ignorance, no matter how minor. "I believe it stems from the fact that 'throw' is a synonym for 'pitch', as in pitch a tent or marquee. Technically, I suppose the phrase only applies to garden parties, but people rarely take notice of technicalities in colloquialisms."

"Well, they should," Sherlock sniffed haughtily, accepting his older brother's word without question.

"But they don't. Honestly, Sherlock, if you expect to get anywhere in life you must learn to tolerate and make allowances for ordinary people."

"Why should I? They never make allowances for _me_."

"There are a great deal of allowances made for you. Perhaps if you were more understanding of the people who do so, they would return the favour. Now, do you intend to get out of the wardrobe and make Mummy happy by getting changed for dinner, or must I pull you out by force and make a mess?"

"I'd rather stay where I am."

"Are you certain? I know for a fact that she's serving Pavlova for dessert."

There was a pause as Sherlock considered this.

"Oh, very well." Mycroft smiled at the grudging agreement, quickly wiping it from his face as the wardrobe door swung open to reveal a pale, skinny five year old blinking his grey eyes against the light, his dark curls hopelessly tousled. "I suppose if I don't go, you'll eat my portion and get even fatter."

"No personal comments, Sherlock; or you'll be sent to bed long before pudding is served."

Mrs Collins smiled at the two boys (thankfully, she'd only brought wine and flowers this time), her expression faltering slightly when she laid eyes on the younger one, standing sulkily behind his brother. "Mycroft, Sherlock; my, you're both getting so big. I'd hardly know you. How old are you now?"

"Twelve, Mrs Collins," Mycroft answered smoothly. "And Sherlock is five."

"Five already; it feels like only a few months ago that I was knitting you little hats and booties. Such a shame your mother and I don't meet up more often."

"Yes, I can see that you're very busy with Mr R…" Mycroft's foot came down firmly on Sherlock's toe. "Ow! Mycroft, you trod on me!"

"Oh, I am sorry, Sherlock; my foot slipped. May I take your coat, Mrs Collins?"

Later, after Sherlock had been sent rather hastily to bed (although he had made it to the Pavlova; the chemistry of meringue was one of his recent fascinations) most of the guests breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

Mycroft, his seven extra years and reliable politeness allowing him to stay up an extra hour, observed an increasingly inebriated Mrs Collins groping a very receptive Mr Redgrave's leg under the table.

_There is something to be said for a seldom seen Sherlock_, he mused fondly to himself, knowing his acerbic little brother would be absolutely incapable of not pointing it out to the whole party. _Particularly as Mrs Redgrave and Mr Collins are not only both present, but entirely oblivious. Honestly; looking after my brother is going to become a permanent occupation if he can't even recognise perfectly good blackmail material when he sees it… _

SHSHSHSH

D'you think the boys sounded a bit too old here? I just can't make myself write Sherlock without using Queen's English, even as a small child. All feedback gratefully received.


	2. Track 1: Starlings

A/N: My deepest gratitude goes out to TheLadyLilith, who generously beta'd all the medical aspects of this chapter for me.

SHSHSHSH

_"But find a man that's truer than,_  
><em>Find a man that needs you more than I.<em>.."

'Starlings,' Elbow, 2008

SHSHSHSH

**Track 1 – Starlings**

James Moriarty was in his element.

He honestly couldn't remember he last time he'd felt so alive, so utterly stimulated, as standing here, in the pool where he'd committed his very first murder, watching Sherlock Holmes point a gun at the bomb that lay on the tiles between them. It was like feeling a crescendo of sound rise through his body to reverberate through every last glittering brain cell.

_Oh, just to think of the months, years, _decades_ I've spent, planning and preparing and anticipating this… finally, staring into the eyes of a man who is my _equal_… The swooping feeling in my abdomen is quite unprecedented._

_Well, _almost_ my equal,_ he corrected with a slight grimace. _Although it was necessary for Sherlock to form an attachment to someone else for this plan to work quite as brilliantly as it has, I'm certain DI Lestrade would have done if it hadn't been for Johnny boy over there. _

_I honestly can't see the attraction. Ordinary looking, no dress sense, fairly good at his dull professions of soldier and doctor but so _unspectacular_… And just look at all those smile lines; one would think he'd never heard of moisturiser. At least I pay some attention to detail. _

_I've certainly proved it to my Sherlock in this Great Game of ours. Even though I was slightly preoccupied by sabotaging the Korean elections after they failed to meet my price on the sale of those missile plans, I still remembered to apply my anti-ageing cream, have my eyebrows tinted and add the little touch with the underwear for our meeting_.

_The most delicious thing was how easy it was, to slip unnoticed into the background of his life. To become one of the ignored, despised masses and fool him, even though he must surely have found my attentions… unsubtle, at best. I left him my phone number, and he was so focussed on the puzzle I'd set him he didn't even notice that it was for a highly sophisticated and untraceable satellite phone. For shame, Sherlock. _

_It was harder than I expected, to stand at Molly's shoulder like a good boyfriend when all I wanted to do was sweep my Detective off his feet. He is mine, after all; no one else could possibly lay a claim to him after everything I've done, everything I've dreamt of us doing together. I almost jumped when that dull-as-dishwater doctor responded on his behalf; there might as well have been no one else in the room but Sherlock_…

_I think I'll take him to Vegas when I've persuaded him over to my way of thinking. We'll clean out the casinos together and get drunk on the power of outwitting those idiots who think themselves better than us because they're normal. _

_After that, there's no way he can refuse me. The Orange Grove Hotel has a really quite elegant little chapel, not an Elvis impersonator in sight; and the whole world will know whom Sherlock Holmes belongs to. Sherlock Moriarty has such a nice Irish ring to it… _

_I've never encountered anyone else so fascinatingly, compellingly like myself. I can't help but want to play with him; it's just such _fun_… nothing else has ever held my attention for so long._

_I had one of my mouthpieces tell him we were made for one another; and we both know it's quite true. After all, neither of us loves anything more than stimulation, and a game of life or death for all those pathetic pawns out there is so _exhilarating_. Surely he feels it too? The thrill of the chase? The thing that keeps us sane? Keeps us going? Keeps us so _alike_… What are a few lives, anyone's lives, next to _that?

_And then he had the nerve to disappoint me by suggesting I was going to be so unimaginative as to kill him. Of course I wouldn't kill Sherlock Holmes yet; not until I'm bored with him. _

_No; I'm going to string him along, make him look for my hand in every case he takes, watch him struggle and search and strive even though it's so clearly hopeless. He knows he can't win; I'm too well connected, too rich, too brilliant. I can blackmail, bribe or coerce anyone to get me anything I want; all he has to call on is a crippled doctor, a well-placed brother and a handful of idiot policemen. Enough to make him interesting, but not a serious threat._

_All these years I've studied Sherlock, ever since he kicked up a fuss over Carl Powers; all the time and effort I've put into watching him… I must sit him down one day and find out how much I was right about. I've never been much of a listener before, because I can predict other people's responses to anything I say with ninety eight point seven percent accuracy; but I listen to Sherlock. Because sometimes, just sometimes, he manages the next to impossible feat of surprising me._

_Me, Jim Moriarty, World's Only Consulting Criminal. And that _feeling_… it's like there are stars going supernova in my brain, acid fizzing in my blood, birds swooping in my abdomen… _

_It'd almost be worth him shooting me in the head, just to relish the split second of _that.

And then James Moriarty felt it full force, as Sherlock's icy grey-blue eyes slid from his greatest opponent, his true equal, to the drab, ordinary little doctor who crouched at his side. They softened infinitesimally, as a whole conversation took place in two point six seconds of complete silence. Moriarty marvelled at the unprecedented levels of surprise he felt when he failed to completely comprehend what wasn't said; but John 'idiot' Watson quite clearly did.

_It's like watching a Japanese soap opera without subtitles; all I can understand is the pictures without grasping the storyline. Even someone normal would be able to read that Sherlock's saying I'M SORRY and YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO DO and DO YOU TRUST ME? I should be able to deduce a whole essay from that look; but I can't. _

_No one should be able to understand my Sherlock better than me, after all the years I've studied him; it defies all logical analysis. Especially not a man as ordinary as a washed up army doctor who's only flatshared with him for a couple of months. _

Watson's response was a clenching of his jaw; there was nothing soft in his expression. His blue-hazel eyes took on the cold shimmer of steel; a resounding DO IT that didn't need any gesture so obvious as the nod, chin dipping just a fraction of an inch.

Sherlock brought the weapon up and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was deafening as it reverberated in the vast space.

Moriarty looked down at the dark stain spreading across his favourite Westwood suit, touching the blood that swelled from the neat little hole on the right side of his torso, just below the lung.

And grinned.

"Oh, _Sherlock_," he said, a little woozy from a combination of excitement, surprise and pain. "You clever, _clever_ boy… You've just made your _precious_ doctor the most important man in the room…"

_That is just… gorgeous! It's perfect, beautiful… A through and through bullet wound in the region of my spleen; not an instantly fatal injury, but I need immediate medical attention or I'll bleed out in minutes. If I want to live, I can't kill John Watson. And if I were to order Sherlock's death, I sincerely doubt the good doctor would be co-operative. I should have known my Detective would manage to impress me… _

The master criminal's delighted little giggle proved too much for his suddenly unsteady legs and he collapsed. Blood began to collect in the grooves of the non-slip tiles beneath him almost immediately. "The _elegance_ of it…" he whispered.

"If you shoot either of us, Moriarty dies," Sherlock declared loudly to the snipers, knowing they were unlikely to grasp the full meaning of the situation. "And if that happens, I doubt you lot will get paid; so I suggest you let Doctor Watson do his work without interference." There was no response, although the red laser sights didn't waver from their targets.

"I'm going to take still being alive as agreement to my terms," Sherlock stated. "John?"

The trained combat surgeon was at his captor's side in seconds, tearing the designer jacket and almost shredding the expensive shirt beneath to get to the wound.

Deft fingers pressed and probed around the gaping hole in the pale skin for a few seconds before John yanked off his cardigan so he could press it over the injury with his knee, leaning his full weight onto the wound to slow the bleeding.

Jim's vision whited out for a moment as his high-pitched, girlish scream echoed in the empty pool.

"Right," John said assertively. "Sherlock, I need you to sterilise your penknife with your lighter; get it as hot as you can. You missed the lung and the stomach, thankfully, but punctured the spleen; I'm going to have to operate immediately to remove it before he bleeds to death. The splenic vein and artery are too big to cauterise so I'll have to tie 'em off; a few threads from this overpriced jacket should do it. And get me more fabric, the denser the better. I need to get this blood clotting."

He raised his voice, but not his eyes, as he lifted a waxy eyelid to check the pupil response with gory fingers. "And if any of you lot want to see your boss last the night, you'll send two men down here right now and help us hold him down because I'm about to stick a red hot knife in him without anaesthetic! Field medic training would be nice, but a bloody firm grip will do!"

The stirring of movement from above and a shout of "Sixty seconds!" suggested the snipers were indeed on payment-on-completion contracts.

"D'you have HIV, hepatitis; any other blood-borne diseases I need to know about?" John asked his patient, despite the fact his hands were already covered in blood and they all knew it was too late to be worrying about infection.

Jim managed another little giggle through the pain. "Why, Doctor Watson; I had no idea you were interested in a _threesome_…"

"I'm _interested_ in avoiding six months of blood tests and anti-retrovirals," he snapped back.

"Don't bother, John," Sherlock interjected. "I wouldn't trust Jim here to tell the truth about the colour of the sky, let alone whether you've been exposed to a dangerous pathogen."

"Oh, Sherlock…" Moriarty sighed like an exasperated parent. "You're always so _suspicious_."

"He's also bloody right," the Doctor defended his friend. "Believe me, Mr Moriarty; if I do catch anything nasty from saving your life, next time it'll be me holding the gun. And I _don't_ need laser sights."

Moriarty observed the momentary upward quirk of Sherlock's narrow lips at the threat. _A reference to poor Jeff, my sponsored serial killer; he really never stood a chance from the moment Johnny boy started following Sherlock around. Or maybe it's just the idea of anyone so pathetically ordinary as Watson managing to assassinate me…_

"Have you done this before?" Sherlock enquired curiously, as he watched the blade of his penknife start to oxidise as it heated in the flame of his lighter.

John looked up from pulling silk thread out of the jacket lining. "A splenectomy? Of course, dozens of 'em."

"No, I meant surgery, without drugs."

"Only when there was no other choice."

"There wasn't." Sherlock's eyes lifted almost bashfully to meet John's through his lashes. "Not without setting off the bomb, and at that range…"

A warm, affectionate smile creased the doctor's homely face.

"Good shot," he said softly. Sherlock's alabaster features echoed his expression, even flushing a little in pleasure.

Moriarty stared up at them, his mind hazy with a combination of pain, bloodloss and, well… something else unprecedented.

_I never thought I'd ever fail to enjoy being surprised… but oh, this… this is just… a_ travesty!

_Sherlock Holmes, my brilliant, icy logic machine, brought down to the level of normality… By _John Watson_, of all people! A stupid, ordinary, sheep of a man not fit to lick his boots! How _dare _Sherlock be less than perfection? How dare he look at a human like that, someone who cannot give him the puzzles, the games, the chase I know he needs just to function? How can he care what that moron thinks of his actions when the only man who can truly make his life worth living lies before him? _

_That's what I couldn't read before; Sherlock truly, honestly _cares_ about Watson. I knew they were shagging, but I never considered that a self-diagnosed sociopath might believe himself… _urgh_… in _love…

_This just won't do! I can't allow it! How can I ever enjoy being surprised ever again after experiencing _this_? How dare Sherlock take that- the thing that made us so perfect for one another, the one thing I live for, away from me! After everything I've done for him, all those years wasted watching and planning and fantasising… _

_This will not stand. I may have lost Sherlock, but I am not going to lose the game too… not since he turned out to be a mere _man…

The consulting criminal grinned suddenly, feeling a flood of satisfaction almost replace the blood rapidly escaping his body.

_I suppose he couldn't have been as good as I hoped; he's clearly never even wondered why my bomb vests needed all those wires and LEDs if they were designed to be detonated _only_ by sniper bullets_…

Under cover of reaching for his wound, Moriarty managed to manoeuvre his right hand into the pocket of his ruined Westwood jacket to find the remote, hovering his thumb over the button.

"Sherlock, my dear…" he managed, needing to draw Sherlock's attention back to himself. "We could have been so _good_ together… We could have been… _unstoppable_."

"I sincerely doubt that, Jim," Sherlock replied haughtily.

"But know this, Sherlock Holmes…" Moriarty let one last smug grin emerge onto his pain-wracked features. "I _beat_ you. I've _won_."

"Really." Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker briefly over the scene; John compressing Moriarty's wound while the puddle of blood around him crept ever wider. "And how do you arrive at that conclusion?"

"Because while I am _always_ pleased to see you… I have something in my pocket too…"

James Moriarty was still smiling as he pressed the button with blood-slickened fingers. _And you'll never know what a life I could have given you_…

The last thing he saw was Sherlock's eyes widening before the bomb ignited spectacularly.

SHSHSHSH

_Starlings_

_How dare the premier ignore my invitations?_  
><em>He'll have to go.<em>  
><em>So, too, the bunch he luncheons with;<em>  
><em>It's second on my list of things to do.<em>

_.  
><em>

_At the top I'm stopping by,_  
><em>Your place of work and acting like<em>  
><em>I haven't dreamed of you and I<em>  
><em>And marriage in an orange grove.<em>  
><em>You are the only thing in any room you're ever in.<em>  
><em>I'm stubborn, selfish and too old.<em>

_.  
><em>

_I sat you down and told you how_  
><em>The truest love that's ever found<em>  
><em>Is for one's self.<em>  
><em>You pulled apart my theory<em>  
><em>With a<em> w_eary and disinterested sigh._

_.  
><em>

_So yes I guess I'm asking you_  
><em>To back a horse that's good for glue<em>  
><em>And nothing else.<em>  
><em>But find a man that's truer than,<em>  
><em>Find a man that needs you more than I.<em>

_.  
><em>

_Sit with me a while_  
><em>And let me listen to you talk about<em>  
><em>Your dreams and your obsessions<em>  
><em>I'll be quiet and confessional.<em>  
><em>The violets explode inside me<em>  
><em>When I meet your eyes.<em>  
><em>Then I'm spinning and I'm diving<em>  
><em>Like a cloud of starlings.<em>

_.  
><em>

_Darling is this love?_

SHSHSHSH

This track is a bit schizophrenic; that's why it made me think of Moriarty.

I was going to follow the trend and do the whole dive into the pool thing… but then this deliciously neat and original (I think? Correct me if I'm wrong) idea popped into my head and just begged to be written. Hope you liked.


	3. Track 2: The Bones of You

Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter.

This is probably my favourite song from the album; I hope the story does it justice.

SHSHSHSH

_"And the second it hits, I can work 'till I break,_

_But I love the bones of you, and that I will never escape._"

'The Bones Of You,' Elbow, 2008

SHSHSHSH

**Track 2 – The Bones of You**

Whenever anyone asked John how he was doing, with that sympathetic concern he'd always loathed, he told them he'd been coping.

He _had_, he told himself fiercely. Whole hours sometimes passed when he didn't think about it; didn't ache to turn the clock back two years, one month and three days to when the world still seemed… full.

He also knew that none of those who asked actually believed his answer, which annoyed him but not enough to make him lose his temper. Little did, these days; after all, what would be the point? Both of the men who truly deserved his anger were already dead, and he'd never believed in taking it out on the innocent.

Taking every available night shift in the A & E where he now worked was far from the healthiest way of coping with his losses, but at least the varied work and occasional scuffles with drunk, violent (or more often, both) patients helped with his adrenaline addiction.

It paid a lot better than locum GP work, too, which was the excuse he always used on Sarah, on the rare occasions she complained that they only saw each other in the lift to the tasteful, modern flat they now shared. She was right, of course; she still worked nine to five in the clinic, and John's punishing eleven hour nightshifts left them barely a couple of hours a day to spend together, too tired to do much more than eat dinner in front of the telly.

Money was far from the main reason that John preferred to work at night, however. He'd grown accustomed to sleeping through the day while working with Sherlock; and it also meant that Sarah wasn't there to witness the nightmares.

He'd never thought he'd have a worse memory to disturb his rest than the horrors he'd seen in Afghanistan, but the mad, triumphant, savage expression on Moriarty's face as he set off his own bomb had somehow managed it. Day after day after day, John woke screaming Sherlock's name, remembering that face illuminated by the first flare of the explosion and then… blackness.

He'd woken up in hospital two days later with a hairline skull fracture, a serious concussion, one leg and three ribs broken, minor internal bleeding and enough bruises, cuts and abrasions to make him look as if he'd been through another war. Which, in a way, he supposed he had.

The worst part, though, was that he'd been alone, just like when he woke up in hospital after Afghanistan with no idea that he was back in England. He'd managed to push the call button for a nurse, but by the time she'd finished checking him over John was out cold again.

The next time he regained consciousness a few hours later, the illustrious Mycroft Holmes had been sitting at his bedside, a sight that had never before made icy fingers trail up John's spine. After all, Sherlock would never allow his brother to see John before him if he could possibly prevent it, which meant he had to be in a worse state than John himself…

"Ah, John; awake at last," he began pleasantly. "We were all quite concerned about you; how are you feeling?"

"Had worse," he stated, dismissive but truthful. "Where's Sherlock? Is he all right?"

Something flickered in the familiar eyes. "Perhaps I should summon a nurse; you are clearly in pain…" he tried.

"Mycroft," John said, his voice suddenly dark, soft and utterly undeniable. "Tell me."

"Very well, John. May I ask… how much do you remember?"

"Got kidnapped, strapped to a bomb, snipers, Sherlock got me out of the vest and wounded Moriarty, and then Moriarty shot the bomb. I suppose the blast knocked me out; how badly was Sherlock hurt? Is he here?"

"I am… very sorry, John…" the usually smooth tenor of the British Government actually wavered. "Sherlock… was closer to the bomb than you were… I am afraid that he…"

"No," John interrupted, quiet but absolute. "Don't tell me that… he's not… he can't be…"

"Sherlock Holmes was killed instantly by the explosion."

The doctor didn't hear another word until Sarah came to visit him some hours later. She'd simply enveloped him in her arms and whispered over and over how scared she'd been, how much she cared, how much she needed him… and John couldn't help but cling to her like a lifeline.

Things hadn't really changed since. Broken bones healed, cuts scabbed over and became barely noticeable new scars in John's extensive collection. His life became… normal.

And then, one Friday night, as he hurried towards the hospital mentally cursing Boris Johnson, the RMT and anyone else he could think of involved in the running of the London Underground, he heard it.

John stopped dead. Several people on the crowded street walked into him, but he barely noticed.

A single violin, the sound hauntingly lonely, cut through traffic noise and gangs of boisterous club and pub goers. The sheer longing in the music drew the breath from his lungs.

He couldn't have named the piece to save his life, but he knew it all the same, as familiar and resonant within his chest as his own heartbeat.

And just like that, the memories submerged him like the chlorinated waters of a swimming pool; pleasantly warm, but stinging eyes and open wounds unbearably.

Those precious nights, lying in bed on the cusp of sleep, his face pressed into expensive linen still warmed and scented by a mop of dark curls. Feeling the sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his own mixed with that gleaned from the ivory flesh it had so recently been entwined with. Looking forwards to the stage of the evening more intimate than any other, although they shared it in different rooms.

The first unearthly moan of bow across strings invariably sent a shiver down his spine. He held his breath in infinite anticipation during the slight pause that always followed before the notes began to flow, merging effortlessly into a continual stream of sound.

John always struggled to stay awake just a little longer, though his eyelids felt like lead and his muscles like congealed custard, to listen to the soul of the most remarkable human being he had ever encountered being laid bare, just for him. It reminded him morbidly of the skull on the mantelpiece; all fleshly pretence stripped away to expose the core of bone beneath, the ultimate vulnerability.

Plain, ordinary, boring John Watson would listen in awe to his private concert, knowing mere catgut and horsehair were expressing all the emotions repressed ruthlessly at all other times. Eventually, he would succumb to sleep, and dream of fleeting meetings of eyes and brushing of fingers that were somehow more meaningful than mere sex.

When the music ended at last, John blinked, dazed. He raised a hand to his cheek, surprised by the warmth and wetness of his face.

He didn't go to work that night. Instead, he searched every rooftop, every alley and back street for a mile around in search of the unseen violinist.

When dawn broke, there was one of Mycroft's chauffeur driven black cars waiting to drive him home to his nice girlfriend and their neat magnolia flat.

Very deliberately, John turned his back on it and walked away.

He didn't know why his feet led him, entirely of their own volition, to Sherlock's grave.

There wasn't much point, after all; the coffin beneath the neatly mown grass and highly polished headstone was almost empty, the body so decimated by the blast that only fragments had ever been recovered. His flatmate… colleague… friend… lover… had never even laid eyes on this pleasant green patch, somehow isolated even though it lay at the heart of the city.

That decision had been down to Mycroft. Although they had both been born in Surrey and the village churchyard held a long line of Holmes headstones, including their parents, he'd arranged for his brother's funeral and symbolic burial to take place as close to the centre of London as possible. (How he'd managed it despite the fact that most of the inner city's cemeteries had been standing room only since the Victorian period was another matter.)

Of course, being Mycroft, he'd noticed John's surprise as he told him of the arrangements in Sarah's living room. The pretty doctor had suggested anxiously that he stay with her after he was released from the hospital so he wouldn't have to struggle up the steep steps at Baker Street on his crutches. She really meant, of course, that she didn't want to let him out of her sight in case he vanished again.

John had accepted gratefully, unable to face the silent emptiness of his and Sherlock's flat, still cluttered with experiments that would never be completed. He had never been able to bring himself to stay there alone even after his leg recovered; he'd borne it long enough to pack his own sparse possessions and left the rest exactly as it was. It had taken months for his leg to recover, and by then it seemed only logical for him and Sarah to keep living together.

"There were very few things that my brother loved," Mycroft had explained his decision distantly. "London, I think, was the first of them; Mummy used to bring us when we were children. Then his violin came along, and his work. And after that… well. Just one more. I honestly never thought I would see him grow so attached to a _person_…"

"_Don't_," John had warned harshly, the pain still as raw as a fresh oil burn.

Wisely, Holmes senior had heard the desperation in that single word; and this time, he listened.

SHSHSHSH

The Bones Of You

_So I'm there,_

_Charging around with a juggernaut brow,_

_Overdraft, speeches and deadlines to make._

_Cramming commitments like cats in a sack,_

_Telephone manner and purposeful gait._

_When out of a doorway the tentacles stretch,_

_Of a song that I know_

_And the world moves in slow-mo,_

_Straight to my head like the first cigarette of the day._

_.  
><em>

_And it's you, and it's me,_

_And we're sleeping through the day._

_And I'm five years ago,_

_And three thousand miles away._

_.  
><em>

_Do I have time? _

_A man of my calibre_

_Stood in the street like a sleepwalking teenager._

_And I know that I dealt with this years ago,_

_I took a hammer to every memento._

_But image on image like beads on a rosary,_

_Pull through my head as the music takes hold._

_And the second it hits, I can work till I break,_

_But I love the bones of you,_

_And that I will never escape._

_.  
><em>

_And it's you, and it's me,_

_And we're sleeping through the day._

_And I'm five years ago,_

_And three thousand miles away._

_.  
><em>

_And I can't move my arm,_

_For fear that you will wake._

_And I'm five years ago,_

_And three thousand miles away._

_.  
><em>

_And it's you, and it's me,_

_And we're sleeping through the day._

_And I'm five years ago,_

_And three thousand miles away._

SHSHSHSH

Good? Too soppy? Tell me what you thought…


	4. Track 3: Mirrorball

Thank you so much to all the people who read and/or reviewed the last chapter! I was blown away by the response.

This is, in my opinion, the best chapter of this fic. Not only is this a beautiful song which may as well have been written for the characters, but I've managed to work in a lot of my favourite original story too.

SHSHSHSH

_"We made the moon our mirrorball,_

_The streets, an empty stage_

_The city's sirens - violins._

_Everything has changed."_

'Mirrorball,' Elbow, 2008_  
><em>

SHSHSHSH

**Track 3 – Mirrorball**

John felt faintly ridiculous, standing at an empty grave like a grieving widow at six thirty in the morning, still dressed in hospital scrubs from his neglected shift. His trouser hems were getting damp from the dewy grass, an almost forgotten irritation to a man used to paving and tarmac. The muffled traffic noise in the distance only served to enhance the silence of London's dead as her living inhabitants began the bustle of a new day.

He found he'd missed the feeling of doing something stupid; it was rare now that he did anything other than work, sleep, watch telly and occasionally go down the pub. Dull, Sherlock would have said; and John found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. His right leg twinged in the cold morning air; he closed his eyes and brought the vividest of his memories to mind to combat it.

The case had been, admittedly, a brilliant one. A well-off businessman with the unfortunate name of Neville St Clair had been seen looking panicked by his wife through the window of a flat above a dodgy off licence. She'd been kicked out by the owner when she tried to get in to see him, but fortunately a couple of bystanders had phoned the police when they saw the argument going on and two coppers were on the scene in minutes. What they found in the flat, however, was a dirty old man with a deep scar across his lip, recognised by the police as a local beggar called Hugh Boone. They also found Neville St Clair's clothes, wallet, mobile phone and a brand new Nintendo DS, still in the packaging, that he'd reportedly promised to buy for his son's birthday. Yet there was no sign whatsoever of Neville himself, alive or otherwise.

Boone had of course been arrested, for theft if nothing else, and in confused desperation DI Gregson had texted Sherlock.

Almost immediately, the Consulting Detective had insisted they needed to know more about Boone, who, like the off licence owner, was denying everything. The pair spent hours chasing leads through Sherlock's vast and sprawling homeless network, came very close to being beaten up three times, and then had to make a run for it across the moonlit rooftops of Camden to avoid being arrested, which was an education in itself.

John couldn't ever remember having felt so happy, so gloriously alive, as that night, as he followed, blindly trusting, in Sherlock's wake, leaving a couple of confused and winded PCs far behind. He remembered vividly the way the crisp, freezing air had burned in his lungs with every breath, feeling like a kiss on his overheated skin. They had bounded up a pitch-black fire escape and suddenly emerged into a maze of rooftops, the full moon hanging heavy and bright above them. Too out of breath to laugh properly, they leapt gaps and scaled drainpipes, revelling in the freedom of running to the rhythm of a police siren screaming below like their own personal serenade.

As they leaned against a wall to catch their breath on third floor balcony, John couldn't help but comment.

"Sherlock… try and remember… that not all of us… have a giraffe… in our family tree?" He panted out.

"You're… not that much… shorter than me… and you always seem to… manage to keep up, regardless."

"Keep up, just about. Leap between tall buildings… in a single bound, no."

"It was only eight feet; with the momentum we had, that jump was child's play."

"What, were you the long jump champion at school? It was bloody _miles_. And we certainly surprised that… couple on the set of balconies opposite."

"Well, if you're into doing that kind of thing… in front of a plate glass window with the curtains open, I expect being observed is half the fun."

"I doubt it; did you see the look on that bloke's face?"

"I assumed that was due to the… pink… wobbly… thing."

"Can we _not_ think about… mention, or otherwise allude to… the pink wobbly thing ever again, please? I think I've been put off blancmange for life already."

Sherlock snorted helplessly, about as far from his usual poise as it was possible to be. "I think I'm actually looking forward to Christmas this year…" he managed. "Blancmange is one of Mycroft's favourites…" The pair collapsed against one another in gales of laughter.

"Oh…" John gasped. "Can I come? I have _got_ to see that…"

A connection sparked in Sherlock's mind. John could see the moment of exultant revelation cross his face, silvery highlights making the flushed skin appear to glow from the inside.

"Oh… _Oh_! Of course… _child's play_, John! That is… oh, how utterly _perfect_! Oh, I _love_ it! Don't you see? I don't know how it could have taken me this long; it's all about _perception_…"

"What is?" John huffed, still winded. "Have you solved it?"

"Oh, I've solved it all right! Neville St Clair didn't leave the flat; he never even left the room! He's been right in front of us all this time!"

"Where is he, then; under the floorboards?"

"No; don't you get it? It's all in the coins, John; the change we found in his coat pockets! St Clair isn't a city boy; he's not even employed!"

"But… I thought he was rolling in it?"

"Rolling in pound coins and fifty pence pieces; don't you see? Neville St Clair _is _Hugh Boone!"

"What? But the scar… and the police recognised Boone…"

"When I was a child, one of the few vaguely age-appropriate activities I truly enjoyed was dressing up. It's surprisingly simple to fool the untrained eye with a fake scar, some false eyebrows, a wig, bit of makeup…"

"Hang on a minute; are you saying he made all that money sitting on a street corner telling stories to tourists? Bloody hell, I can barely afford half a flat with you; six years of university was really worth it."

"A busy enough street, with enough generously minded people? Conservative estimate; call it a pound a throw, with two thousand people walking past him in a day. Even if he only has a five percent success rate, that's a hundred pounds per day. Five hundred a week, two thousand a month, twenty four thousand a year; and no income tax."

"He probably fell on hard times, took it up out of desperation. Then he starts making serious money; almost more than he can spend. Starts living as himself again, outside of his _job_, using that flat above the offie to change his appearance from Neville to Hugh and back again. Meets his wife, tells her he's a businessman to impress her. Gets married, place in the country, couple of kids, all supported by the generosity of the Great British Public."

"And then by complete coincidence, his wife walks past the flat and spots him?"

"It's not as much of a stretch as you might think, John; the flat was located close to the train station for Neville's convenience, and his wife was on her way home from a shopping trip, therefore following the same route at the same time of day as her husband. Of course he panicked when he knew he'd been recognised, so he put his alter-ego's disguise back on so she would think she was mistaken even if she did get up to the flat."

"Except the police got called, and he ended up getting arrested on suspicion of his own murder."

"Exactly. And even after that had happened, it seems he quite irrationally decided he'd rather go to prison than tell her the truth; he must be anticipating a highly negative reaction."

"Well, you can't blame her for that." John's eyes widened suddenly. "And besides…"

"What?"

"I wouldn't want to be in Neville's shoes when the Inland Revenue get their hands on him."

Sherlock burst into genuine, infectious laughter; John found himself joining in, both of them sky-high on endorphins and triumph.

And then Sherlock turned to face John, his usually sterile features flushed with exercise and giggles, and kissed him.

The whole city, the whole world seemed to coalesce into the two of them as lips locked and tongues entwined; nothing else existed but the glorious contact. Both of them were panting harder than before when the need for oxygen finally forced them apart.

"You were right," John gasped, lips swollen and hair mussed where Sherlock had been running his fingers through it.

"I always am," Sherlock managed, his grey eyes black in the moonlight. "You'll have to be… more specific."

"Breathing _is _boring," John told him, a hint of the feral creeping into his grin.

It was a long time before they left that balcony.

Jon woke promptly at six as usual the next morning, a habit drilled into him so thoroughly by the army he doubted he'd ever lose it. Less usually, however, the bed wasn't his; and he wasn't alone. Sherlock was sprawled face down across the mattress, his vast height and long limbs splayed so widely that one bony foot and spidery hand had overspilled the side. The others were entwined around John, Sherlock's head pillowed on his good shoulder.

It was vanishingly rare for John to actually see Sherlock sleeping. Like a toddler, he pushed himself to the point of exhaustion and then collapsed wherever he happened to be when his energy ran out. It was actually rather endearing, the way he slept with as much utter focus as he did everything else; dead to the world until he started awake, mind jolted straight back into full awareness.

Warmth blossomed in the doctor's chest as he watched the sleeping face, noticing how the dark curls tickled his chest slightly as he breathed. Sherlock looked younger, more… human, when he slept, the alabaster skin smoothed in repose as surprisingly long lashes curled disarmingly against his cheeks. John felt rough and unpolished in comparison, with his broad, hairy chest marred by so many scars next to that sleek, perfect Grecian body; he wondered how he'd ever got even half this lucky.

He watched, entranced, as long as he could, before duty and an awareness of how many sick days he could reasonably take without losing his job eventually won out. He craned his neck just enough to brush his lips against Sherlock's temple and then carefully disentangled them, taking great care not to wake him.

As John let himself out as quietly as possible, it didn't occur to him that he looked a different man to the one who'd first limped up the steps into 221B Baker Street.

John's back had been ramrod straight that morning, his smile broad and confident. His steps were rapid and perfectly even; psychosomatic limp a mere memory. His arms swung lightly, as if he were marching on parade, the left moving as smoothly as the right despite the old injury. His unremarkable five foot ten frame suddenly became a round six feet, bolstered by the bubble of joy until his feet hardly touched the pavement. He'd had barely three hours sleep and felt on top of the world, a fizz in his blood and long forgotten lightness in his chest where the memories of war once weighed him down.

Three years later, John's shoulders were rounded, the left aching fiercely in the chill. His right leg was protesting every movement, spine bent under the weight of pain, and a grief too deep for healing. His dry, bloodshot eyes traced the simple inscription on the headstone.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_The Great Detective_

_1976 – 2010_

_visibilium raro iuvenis_

SHSHSHSH

Mirrorball

_I plump the kind of kiss_

_That wouldn't wake a baby_

_On the self-same face_

_That wouldn't let me sleep._

_And the street_

_Is singing with my feet,_

_And the dawn gives me a shadow _

_I know to be taller._

_._

_All down to you, dear._

_Everything has changed._

_._

_My sorry name_

_Has made it to graffiti._

_I was looking for_

_Someone to complete me._

_._

_Not any more, dear,_

_Everything has changed._

_._

_And we make the moon our mirror ball_

_The streets, an empty stage_

_The city's sirens - violins._

_Everything has changed._

_._

_So lift off love._

_(down to you, dear)_

_Lift off love._

_(down to you, dear)_

_._

_We took the town to town last night._

_We kissed like we invented it._

_And now I know what every step was for_,

_To lead me to your door._

_._

_Know that while you sleep,_

_Everything has changed._

_._

_We made the moon our mirror ball._

_The streets, an empty stage_

_The city's sirens - violins._

_Everything has changed._

_Everything has changed._

_Everything has changed._

_._

_So lift off love_

_Down to you, dear_

_Lift off love_

_Down to you, dear..._

SHSHSHSH

Yes, the inscription is Latin for the title of the story; I couldn't resist. Let me know what you thought.


	5. Track 4: Grounds For Divorce

Once again, I am deeply grateful to the people taking the time to review this little story. You guys make my day.

SHSHSHSH

_"There's a tiny cigarette case,_

_And the rest you can keep."_

'Grounds For Divorce,' Elbow, 2008._  
><em>

SHSHSHSH

**Track 4 – Grounds For Divorce**

John's old soldier's instinct felt the presence behind him long before he heard expensive shoes squeaking slightly on the damp grass.

"Good morning, John," Mycroft's entirely expected tenor said softly.

"Mycroft," he replied simply, without turning.

"How's the leg feeling?"

"Fine."

"I'm afraid your posture suggests otherwise, Doctor."

John said nothing.

"I had the lovely Sarah contacted to assure her of your safety before a panic was caused at New Scotland Yard; and the hospital are under the impression that you were called to deal with an urgent family emergency. I left the details as vague as possible, however."

"Thank you."

"It is not like you to act so impulsively, Doctor Watson."

"No; no, I don't suppose it is, lately."

"I have a car waiting; I really must insist on giving you a lift home. You may be accustomed to regular night shifts, but wandering the streets of London for hours at a time is hardly the same thing."

"And if I'd rather stay here?" John asked, a hint of steel creeping into his tone.

"Then I would, most reluctantly, be forced to utilise some less than pleasant persuasion in the form of my bodyguards. This… does no one any good, you least of all."

John didn't doubt the threat. With one last, lingering look at the inscription, he followed Mycroft meekly from the cemetery and back to real life.

To avoid Mycroft's agonisingly familiar eyes in the car, John passed the time fiddling with his phone. Over two dozen missed calls; some from work, most from Sarah. She'd texted him repeatedly, too. John scrolled through the messages without bothering to read them until he came across one from Lestrade.

**Hi mate we still on 4 darts Monday?**

Monday nights had become almost sacred. After a long, hard weekend covering the shifts of other doctors who wanted a little time to spend at home with their families, Monday was almost always John's day off. Sarah, in contrast, was always exhausted on a Monday; a combination of those trying to pass a hangover off as food poisoning to skive off work and people who'd been saving up minor niggles over the weekend meant the clinic was overwhelmed.

He'd got into the habit of meeting friends from Before at pubs or restaurants on Mondays. Well, they were friends now, anyway; they'd always thought of him as more of a background figure previously.

Lestrade and a small circle of others from the Yard were John's most regular associates. Occasionally he'd have coffee with Molly Hooper, just to see how she was doing, or a couple of pints with Mike Stamford. He phoned Mrs Hudson at least once a week, and John took her out to dinner fairly often.

Even Mycroft turned up at John's flat at irregular intervals, with what was probably a hideously expensive tea service and some severely health- conscious nibbles. The expression of distaste as he consumed them was always as painful as it was amusing; Sherlock would have loved to see his brother's face as he nibbled daintily on a carrot stick and a wholegrain bran biscuit.

Sarah tried hard to be understanding about John's need to stay connected to that time of his life; she rarely complained about anything, which her boyfriend found both convenient and mildly irritating. He was so used to being needed, demanded of, as he had been both in the army and with Sherlock, that it felt unsettling to be around someone who, once the shock of his near-death was over with, appeared to ask so little of him.

John bought Sarah flowers when he remembered, which seemed to please her, but there was always something reserved in her eyes. Like she'd really wanted something else, but she never told him what it was so he assumed it wasn't important. After all, if she wasn't happy, surely she would tell him so that they could do something about it.

He should have known it was never going to be that simple.

Matters came to a head when, after a wordless nod to Mycroft, he let himself back into their flat and found her pacing the room, red eyed and clearly frantic.

"John!" She threw herself into his arms, his name almost a sob. John caught her instinctively even as he winced at the impact on his bad shoulder.

"Sarah? I thought you were going into the surgery to catch up on your paperwork this morning?"

"_Paperwork!_ You went _missing_, John! The hospital couldn't get hold of you when you didn't turn up for your shift so they phoned the landline and I couldn't stop thinking… the last time you vanished like that…"

John's eyes darkened, as they always did at mention of that night. "No… No; it was nothing like that; I'm fine. Sorry I worried you."

"Where _were_ you? I phoned everyone I could think of and nobody knew; I was going out of my mind. I was about to send out a search party when Mycroft rang to tell me you were safe. Why couldn't you just pick up your bloody phone, John? What was so sodding important you had to vanish like that?"

"I… it was…" John began, aware that the truth would make him sound completely off his rocker. "I thought I heard…" He saw hurt, abandonment and the beginnings of anger in Sarah's eyes and chickened out. "It doesn't matter; wasn't important. I really am sorry; I don't know what else to say."

"You don't know what else to say?" She repeated shrilly. "Maybe that's because you never say anything, John! You sit there and stare at the wall and work every hour you can and don't think I don't know why; I'm not an idiot. I think I'd actually prefer it if I thought you were cheating on me; at least it'd be healthier than this."

John made one attempt to head off the inevitable. "Sarah, we don't need to do this now. We're both tired, we'll both say things we'll regret later…"

"No, John! I've let you get away with this for too long! I though you just needed time, that you were dealing with it in your own way. That you would get over Sherlock and start to focus on me; on us!"

At the mention of that name, John felt his own temper stirring. "Don't drag him into this, Sarah; if you're not happy with me, then your problem is with me!"

"My problem is that you're still obsessed with a man who's been dead for two years!"

"He was my friend! The best friend I've ever had! D'you expect me to just forget about him?"

"I expect you to notice occasionally that just because Sherlock's dead doesn't mean you are! We've been living together for two years and I feel like I know you less now than I did then!"

"What do you want me to do, Sarah? You want me to go back to my useless therapist and my limp and waking up screaming every night?"

"I want a real connection, John! I want a serious relationship with a decent man, one who could be a good husband, a good father to our children!"

"Then you picked wrong! I'm the last man on Earth you should want kids with; I'm a mess, Sarah, have been since I was kicked out of the army. Sherlock was the only thing holding me together!"

"Sherlock Holmes was a walking disaster area!"

"And he needed me! He needed to be saved; like all the mates I left behind in Afghanistan and couldn't help. He needed a fighter and a doctor and a friend, a steady hand under stress and an untraceable handgun, needed someone to stop him getting himself killed!"

"So you're saying I'm too boring? Not enough for you?"

"Sarah… you know I didn't mean it like that."

"Well, then, I've got news for you, John Watson! Yesterday night when you were at work, I slept with Nick from the surgery!"

Several emotions flickered across John's expressive blue eyes. Surprise, disappointment, sorrow, self-deprecation, bitterness, and finally understanding.

"And you don't care, do you?" Sarah asked, watching him carefully, her voice trembling. "You're not even angry; you really don't give a damn what I do."

"I'm sorry, Sarah," John managed. "I did try… and I do care about you… but… This… this is all that's left of me." _What the war didn't take, I buried in Sherlock's grave. _

"Well, then… I suppose… this is it…"

"Suppose so," he acknowledged. The silence felt heavy, tainted with something acidic.

"You can… sleep on the sofa, for a bit, if you want," she offered tentatively. "Until you get yourself sorted…"

"No," John turned her down instantly, reminded unutterably painfully of The Game. "No… I think it's best if I just go. I'll… book into a hotel, until I've found a new flat. I'll just get my things."

John found he hadn't acquired much in the past two years; his clothes, books, gun (which Sarah knew absolutely nothing about) and laptop still fit into his old army kitbag plus the small suitcase he'd brought them in from Baker Street. There was only one more thing that really mattered.

Almost reverently, John opened his sock drawer and retrieved a tiny silver cigarette case, simply made but inscribed with a flourishing monogram. His fingers traced the delicate engraving tenderly, the initials feeling as if they were burned into his skin. _SH._

It had been a family heirloom, he'd learned later from Mycroft, handed down from their great-great uncle; another Sherlock Holmes, if there could be such a thing. It had been a reverse-psychology Christmas present to attempt to persuade Sherlock to give up smoking, but as usual he'd done exactly the opposite of what was expected and used it all the time. Even after he eventually quit, he still carried the little silver box everywhere; only full of nicotine patches instead of fags.

John had found it displayed right in the middle of their suddenly clean coffee table when he got back from the hospital, a paperweight for the note that Sherlock had left for him when he went to meet Moriarty at The Pool. When it had been written, of course, he'd had no idea that his flatmate would be joining him there strapped to three pounds of Semtex.

Gently, John released the catch and took out the much-folded sheet of notepaper inside, soft and creased from many readings. The familiar elegant, near illegible scrawl Sherlock called handwriting made his heart ache every time he saw it.

_**John, **_

_**I hate to sully my last hours with anything so tiresome as a cliché, but there is some information you need to be aware of and telling you in person would rather spoil my plans. **_

_**I am about to attend a meeting with Moriarty, and considering the level of intelligence he has displayed so far, I think it very likely that I will not survive. I shall of course make every effort to take him with me, but the results are by no means guaranteed. **_

_**I am certain that you are furious at being denied the chance to follow me into a situation so spectacularly dangerous, but this is my **__**WORK**__**, John, the climax of my career. I have not the slightest hesitation in sacrificing my own life to bring down a criminal of Moriarty's calibre; indeed, this is the best terminal scenario I could hope for. **_

_**I am not, however, willing to sacrifice yours. You are my friend, and I regret causing you any distress, but I have had quite enough of you being injured on my account. All of my research on Moriarty is saved on your laptop under his name and the password to access the data is something you'll never eat again. **_

_**Mycroft has had my will on file for years and can deal with the legal side of things; the tedium of it quite suits him. Regards to Sarah. **_

_**You, John, are quite possibly the least dull human being I have ever encountered, and whatever the outcome of the evening, I remain,**_

_**Very Sincerely Yours,**_

_**Sherlock Holmes.**_

_**P.S. If the leg starts acting up again, just take a stroll through Camden. That should be dangerous enough even for you**__. _

John ran his thumb tenderly over that messy signature. _Still an idiot, you selfish, brilliant, intoxicating bastard. Oh, God, I miss you… _

He turned as Sarah appeared at the doorway, tears still trailing quietly down her cheeks.

"I think that's everything," he said, re-folding the paper gently. "You can keep the stuff we bought for the flat," he added awkwardly, as he slipped the cigarette case safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his heart.

"No… I couldn't…"

"Honestly, Sarah; none of it's any good to me. It's not like I've got anywhere to put it."

"Oh. Well… I suppose that makes sense. Um, thank you."

"It's the least I could do."

"Answer me just this one question, John," she said softly. "You and Sherlock… you weren't just friends, were you?"

John's hands stilled from the repetitive motion of stuffing socks into the edges of the suitcase. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. _I never kept it secret that I still had that note; or where I kept it. I wouldn't blame her for getting curious enough to look; although whether she understood what she was reading_…

The silence was enough. Sarah made a small sound that may have been a strangled sob, almost drowned out by the very final note of John zipping the case closed. He slung his kitbag over his good shoulder and shifted the suitcase off their bed onto its wheels.

As he stepped past her on his way to the door, John paused and pressed his lips gently against her cheek, the skin slick and salty with tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Twelve hours later, Doctor John Watson found himself sitting alone in a hotel bar, listening to terrible karaokee and nursing a very large scotch.

He was surprised to find that despite the fact he'd become both homeless and single in the course of one argument, he actually felt a little better.

SHSHSHSH

Grounds For Divorce

_One day we'll be drinking to the seldom seen kid..._

_._

_I've been working on a cocktail called Grounds for Divorce_

_Polishing a compass that I hold in my sleeve_

_Down comes him on sticks but then he kicks like a horse_

_There's a tiny cigarette case_

_And the rest you can keep_

_And the rest you can keep_

_And the rest you can keep_

_._

_There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall_

_There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall_

_._

_Mondays is for drinking to the seldom seen kid..._

_._

_There's this whispering of jokers doing flesh by the pound_

_To a chorus of supposes from the little town whores_

_There'll be twisted karaokee at the Aniseed Lounge_

_And I'll bring you further roses_

_But it does you no good_

_And it does me no good_

_And it does you no good_

_._

_There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall_

_There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall_

_There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall_

_._

_Someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid..._

SHSHSHSH

Longest chapter yet; I hope you liked it.


	6. Track 5: An Audience With The Pope

A/N: Once again, many thanks to all the lovely supportive people who reviewed the last chapter. On your advice, I've scrapped the big note from the prologue, reformatted a bit and rewritten the summary, because I quite agree the old one was rubbish.

Hope you like the changes...

SHSHSHSH

_"But if he says he needs me, he says he needs me_

_Everybody's gonna have to wait..."_

'An Audience With the Pope,' Elbow, 2008_  
><em>

SHSHSHSH

**Track 5 – An Audience With The Pope**

Mycroft Holmes was an exceptionally busy man.

Running the British Government was, after all, a challenging occupation, particularly when those badly trained chimpanzees that inhabited the House of Commons came under the delusion that they were there to make _decisions_.

_Then again, if they were anywhere near intelligent enough to foresee the consequences of their actions, they would also be intelligent enough not to do anything without my personal approval. The last time a PM tried that, I had the whole House's expenses claims leaked to a national newspaper. It was very satisfying to see them distracted by defending their right to spend taxpayer's money on duck houses and moat-cleaning on the news every night while I quietly adjusted their policies behind the scenes_.

_Sherlock would have recognised the tactic; I used to plant cigarette butts in the flowerbed underneath his bedroom window for Mummy to find when he made a mess in my room. Of course, he would then retaliate by stealing food from the fridge and getting the crumbs all over my carpet so she would think I was cheating on my diet. If only he'd actually eaten any of it, I wouldn't have been quite so annoyed; he was always too skinny by half even then_.

Mycroft could, unlike his brother, admit that the two of them were exceptionally similar. Both intellectually brilliant, both cold and calculating, both preferring solitude to the company of all but a select few other people, and both utterly obsessed with their chosen careers. They did, however, approach them rather differently.

While Sherlock chose to throw himself body and soul into his cases, Mycroft found the same satisfaction in arranging matters to suit his aims from his cosy office. He loved the intricacy of it, the subtlety of a whisper in this ear or a rumour in that market creating ripples that could grow until they turned into tsunamis that reshaped the world. It was like a sublime game of chess, played in four dimensions against ninety seven different opponents and using approximately six billion pieces.

Such was his passion for the game, Mycroft rarely allowed anything to take precedence over it. And on the few occasions he did, the cause was almost invariably his little brother. Thus, despite the fact that he had been knee deep in preparations for his upcoming meeting, when Mycroft received the text message he would have had to be physically restrained not to go to his brother's aid. And even then, they would have to be _extremely _good restraints; titanium at the very least.

**I need you. 221B, immediately. SH**.

_Sherlock only admits to needing help when the circumstances are dire enough that he has no other choice. In fact, until tonight I could count the number of times he has voluntarily asked for my assistance since reaching adolescence using only my thumbs._

_And it seems I shall have plenty of time to contemplate the fact_; immediately_, in Sherlock's mind, seems to mean something quite different to the dictionary definition. It's not that Dr Watson's armchair is uncomfortable, but there are so many other things I should be doing with my time instead of waiting interminably in a darkened flat. It's also a good thing I'm somewhat used to Sherlock's morbid tastes in interior decorating; or the experience could be extremely unpleasant. The stuffed bat is particularly disconcerting in low light, and the less said about the skull, the better. _

_My PA is screening all my calls; and she knows full well that if she allows my phone to ring for anyone other than my brother, for _any_ reason up to _and including_ a full-scale extraterrestrial invasion, her position is forfeit. Any new species of aliens deciding to descend on Earth at this particularly inconvenient time will have to listen to the standard intergalactic hold music until I become available like everyone else. I believe it's the piece colloquially known as the Mexican Hat Dance; if a couple of hours of _that _doesn't put them off this planet, nothing will. _

Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin, and then realised his unconscious mimicry of his brother's preferred thinking position and gripped the chair's armrests unnecessarily hard instead.

_Where is he? Sherlock, we _desperately_ need to discuss your timekeeping; it is really unacceptable for you to demand immediate assistance and then fail to keep the rendezvous you have requested. At least previously your requests for aid have been from a controlled location_…

The first time, Sherlock had been arrested for possession of a controlled substance and the police's routine search of his university Hall of Residence had found a fairly sophisticated drug lab set up in his room. That took a fair amount of coercion, some judicious bribery and a lot of lies to Mummy to sort out; and being Sherlock, he _still _wasn't particularly grateful, even though not even the arrest made it into any official records.

The second time had been a little less voluntary; Mycroft hadn't set eyes on his only brother in over a year. Sherlock Holmes had escaped from yet another of the obscenely expensive and high- security rehab centres his brother committed him to in hope of getting him clean and vanished without a trace.

At first, Mycroft had been more disappointed than worried. It wasn't unlike Sherlock to disappear into the murky underbelly of London in pursuit of stimulation, both mental and chemical. But as the weeks stretched into months, and Mycroft began using more and more governmental resources in his fruitless attempts to track him down, the fraternal anxiety grew from a qualm into a burning ache.

He was not alone in his concern, either. Their mother's health had been in decline ever since Father's sudden death six months prior to Sherlock's disappearance, but worry for her missing son had certainly had a negative effect. She was fading fast; the doctors gave her a few months at most, and all she wanted was to know that her baby was safe.

Mycroft was surprised to discover exactly how fiercely he wanted to give his dying mother that comfort, even if it meant putting his promising career in jeopardy. He was currently second in command to his father's closest friend, Sir Humphrey Appleby, who had agreed to cover the transition period between Holmes's before his retirement at the end of the year. Mycroft's familial responsibilities had prevented him taking it on immediately, but it was common knowledge among certain circles that he had been groomed to fill the position of Head of the British Government from infancy.

And then one morning, completely out of the blue, the freshly promoted Detective Inspector Lestrade had checked Sherlock's fingerprints against the missing person's database and set off so many system alerts it lit the Home Office computer up like a Christmas tree.

Mycroft had, for the second time in his life, dropped his work without a second's hesitation and had his driver take him to the hospital with all possible speed. He had to know, had to be sure, had to see his brother with his own eyes. Had to make absolutely certain, before he could tell their frail mother what she most wanted to hear.

The room was dark and silent, save the quiet dripping of fluids in the IV tubing which vanished under the pile of sheets that totally obscured the patient. Sherlock's childish gesture of hiding under the bedclothes brought the sulky five year old he had once been firmly to the front of his brother's mind.

"Well, at least this makes a change from the wardrobe, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly.

"What are _you_ doing here?" A hoarse, barely recognisable baritone demanded weakly.

"What am I doing here? Not a word, for eleven months; not a sighting, not an arrest, not even a grainy CCTV shot? No idea if you were alive and drugged to the eyeballs or dead and floating your way out to the English Channel."

"Oh, don't be so sanctimonious, Mycroft." The frighteningly fragile voice made the Arctic seem balmy by comparison. "It's not as if _you_ care one way or the other."

His older brother went so far as to pinch the bridge of his nose, certain he was unobserved. "Whatever you might think of me, Sherlock, you might at least have considered Mummy. You knew she was ill…"

"And my presence would somehow have had an effect on her health?"

"Your _absence _certainly has," he replied sharply. "She has worried herself to death over you, while you gallivanted around injecting yourself with every dangerous or illegal substance as you could get your hands on…"

"She's… dead?" Sherlock asked, uncertainly, suddenly sounding heartbreakingly young. His brother sighed.

"Not yet. But it will not be long."

"I… I didn't know…"

"Would it have made a difference if you had?" Mycroft asked, genuine curiosity concealed by his waspish tone.

"I would have… visited."

"Indeed. And seeing you with pinprick pupils and covered in trackmarks would have made her feel much better, I am certain."

"You don't understand, Mycroft, you can't! All I want is to make it _stop_!"

"Make what stop?"

"The _boredom_," he breathed, the bundle of blankets actually managing to shudder. "I am so _bored_ all of the time… the drugs were the _only _way to make it all go away…"

"You are _bored _because you refuse to apply your mind to anything. My intelligence is at least equal to yours, Sherlock; but I have given it a purpose, fuel to work on, instead of poisoning it…"

"I _can_ apply it; I've found something better than any drug… the intricacy, the challenge… the sheer _ingenuity_ behind it…" Sherlock became aware he was gushing and cleared his throat; it sounded painful. "Do you remember Carl Powers?"

"I should; you obsessed over his death for a whole summer."

"He was _murdered_, Mycroft; I could have proved it, you know I could, if the stupid police had let me near the evidence."

"And what relevance does the suspicious death of a minor over a decade ago have to your present state?"

"I've found a policeman who will listen to me."

_Detective Inspector Lestrade. Well, as hobbies go, it could have been worse. And it is somewhat altruistic, in that he will be helping the police with their enquiries into some particularly intelligent murderers. I have my doubts about how much they will be able to put up with from my brother, however; I shall have to educate this Lestrade in Sherlock-wrangling as soon as possible_.

"It's better than any drug I've ever taken. The puzzle of a really interesting murder; deducing the motive, the means, the method and the culprit… it's _fascinating_, Mycroft… working out what was going on in their mundane little minds is so challenging…"

"And provided you assist him in solving crimes, Lestrade is prepared to overlook your substance abuse?"

"As long as I am discreet, and effective, he is willing to refrain from searching me, yes. I suppose it was too much to ask that he not run my fingerprints through the database when I passed out on his doorstep," he added grumpily.

"Oh, I think you'll find he was only trying to act in your best interests, Sherlock; he did have them checked against Missing Persons rather than the criminal database. I doubt that the Detective Inspector will continue to turn a blind eye after this incident, however."

"I… have tried. I cannot give them up completely, not even with the cases. I need… to strike a balance."

_Oh, no. No, Sherlock, please, don't ask me to do this. Please, please, don't ask me to help you destroy yourself, when sometimes all I can see in your eyes is my baby brother who used to hide in my wardrobe to avoid dinner parties and conduct elaborate experiments on meringues_…

"I need your help."

The hoarse whisper was painfully loud in the dim room. Mycroft's fists clenched involuntarily; it shouldn't have hurt, it really shouldn't. They were only words; four simple words spoken by one brother to another. A simple request for help.

_But the wrong request. He's not asking me to help him get clean; he wants me to help him manage his addiction so that he can appear clean enough to keep the ear of his new Inspector. He wants me to help him become a _better_ junkie_.

_The worst aspect of this is that when Sherlock is desperate enough to ask for my help, I am physically incapable of refusing him. _

_And he _knows_ it_.

Wordlessly, Mycroft crossed the room to the bed and drew back the sheets from the face that had haunted him into obsession for almost a year. For twenty-nine years, if he was quite honest.

Sherlock was so emaciated that his milk-pale skin clung to his skull like shrink-wrap. The only colour in his features was a faint purpling bruise that marred one cheek; even the thin lips were so bloodless as to be almost invisible. The grey eyes indeed showed the pinprick pupils and blood-tinged whites of a long-term drug abuser. His dark hair, cropped so short it showed no hint of a curl, skulked grubbily on his scalp, only serving to emphasise his pallor.

Mycroft had seen corpses that looked healthier than his brother did then. His eyes roved over every detail, learning without asking exactly how Sherlock had spent those eleven interminable months. One perfectly manicured fingertip came to rest, feather-light, on a tiny scar that puckered the fragile skin of his jaw.

_One thing is for certain,_ he thought, a touch hysterically. _I cannot let Mummy see him like this_.

And she hadn't. Mycroft had arranged for his brother's… well, 'treatment' wasn't really the right word, but there wasn't a better one. He'd told Mummy that Sherlock had been found, and was in rehab; he'd even arranged a few phone calls between them. By the time their mother was on her deathbed, Sherlock looked almost human again, and so Mrs Holmes got her wish; both of her remarkable sons at her bedside before she died. They'd even managed not to bicker too much.

Mycroft snapped from his reverie at the soft but unmistakable sound of someone breaking in through Sherlock's bedroom window.

_If that isn't my brother, this was an _extremely _well thought-out assassination plot_…

The door burst open to reveal a wild eyed and filthy Sherlock Holmes, breathing heavy and moving as jerkily as a badly manned puppet.

Mycroft actually flinched at his appearance. The slim-cut designer suit was beyond repair; the fine grey cloth filthy, ripped and even charred in places. The simple white shirt was likewise irretrievable; Sherlock's curls stuck up wildly, prematurely greyed with dust and littered with fragments of tile and concrete.

But what bothered his brother most was the fact that most of the stains looked suspiciously like rapidly drying blood.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Sherlock snapped, tugging self-consciously at the ruined jacket. "Most of it's not mine."

"Moriarty's?" Mycroft asked sharply. _Is this why he asked for help? Has he murdered his rival? I can't see a reason why he'd do that; he relishes the challenge far too much_…

Sherlock flexed his long, pale fingers unconsciously, also stained a rusty brown.

"And John's," he whispered, his voice just a touch unsteady.

_Doctor Watson was the fifth hostage? _Ah_… that would explain it. Sherlock is very possessive about things he considers his; and he is… _fond_ of John, to say the least_.

"Is he…"

"He's alive," Sherlock interrupted jerkily. "I… I made sure… John… he had a pulse, he's only unconscious, not… I _had _to leave… I dragged him to a safer place… The paramedics can't _fail _to find him…"

It had been a very long time since Mycroft Holmes had seen his brother as emotional, and therefore incoherent, as this.

"Sherlock," he said soothingly. "Tell me what you need, and I will do everything within my power to help you."

"I need… I need to die, Mycroft." The breath momentarily froze in his brother's lungs before he realised exactly what Sherlock was asking.

"And faking your own death will help in what way, precisely?" He asked, although he had a fair idea of what Sherlock's response would be.

"Isn't it obvious? If they think I'm dead Moriarty's network will get sloppy about covering their tracks; I can hunt them down and wipe them out one by one and they'll never see me coming. And… and John will be safe…"

"You're doing this for him, then?"

"Moriarty strapped a bomb to his chest, Mycroft! There were laser sights decorating his body like measles! And the minute he saw an opportunity he grabbed Moriarty and told me to run. He offered his life for me, as if I… as if he…"

_Ah, the redoubtable Major Watson shows his true nature once again. And Sherlock is so thoroughly used to being disposable as soon as the case is solved, he has no idea how to respond to that level of devotion_.

"Are you certain you wish to go through with this, Sherlock? It will take at least a year, more likely several of them…"

"I know. I have to do this, Mycroft, please… I have to make him safe; I can't… if he… I couldn't _bear_ it…"

The desperation, the fear and hope and pain that burned in Sherlock's cold eyes was not an expression Mycroft had seen since he was suffering through a particularly painful withdrawal. Only this time, his desire was not for drugs, or even for cases, but for the protection of that which was most precious to him.

_Sherlock Holmes is in love_.

Mycroft wondered at the revelation. _My utterly antisocial little brother, with his obsession with the macabre and borderline personality disorder, is truly, genuinely in love with another human being. _He felt a stab of envy; Sherlock had always been the more outwardly passionate of the brothers, but to actually feel an emotion as deeply human as love… Strongly enough to put John's safety above his work, the only thing that had kept him relatively sane all these years…

And Mycroft knew he could not refuse, any more than he could last time.

"You are aware that this will hurt John terribly; particularly if you turn up in a couple of years to tell him you put him through your demise voluntarily. He may never forgive you."

The younger Holmes' eyes dropped to the floor. "I know," he said hoarsely.

Mycroft produced his Blackberry, Sherlock watching him intently.

"Callista, my dear; would you be so good as to cancel all arrangements for tomorrow's meeting at the Vatican? I am certain His Holiness will understand my absence, in light of the sudden and tragic death of my only sibling. I can hardly be expected to apply myself to the intricacies of the Middle East Peace Process with such a distraction."

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed. They were possibly the most honest two words he had ever spoken to his brother.

SHSHSHSH

An Audience With the Pope

_Sweet Jesus I'm on fire_

_She has the sweetest, darkest eyes_

_And when it comes into her eyes_

_I know iron and steel couldn't hold me_

_Good God I'm easy bruised_

_So often a moth to her flame_

_And the things that she's asked me to do_

_Would see a senior saint _

_Forgetting his name_

_._

_I have an audience with the Pope_

_And I'm saving the world at eight_

_But if she says she needs me, she says she needs me_

_Everybody's gonna have to wait_

_._

_Where could she be?_

_Was that a minute or an hour?_

_Where could she be?_

_She turns the hours into days._

_._

_Kill the phone, cover the cage_

_And wait for the doorbell to ring_

_._

_Where could she be?_

_No she won't come running_

_Where could she be?_

_The world is turning at her pace._

_._

_Kill the phone, cover the cage_

_And wait for the doorbell to ring_

_._

_I have an audience with the Pope,_

_And I'm saving the world at eight,_

_But if she says she needs me, she says she needs me,_

_Everybody's gonna have to wait…_

SHSHSHSH

If you picked up on the character I shamelessly purloined from another BBC series, good for you. Let me know what you thought.


	7. Track 7: The Loneliness Of A Tower Crane

A/N: Once again, thank you so much to those of you following this little story.

I originally intended to do the songs in order, but I'm thoroughly stuck on track 6 "Weather to Fly" so I've posted this instead. I'm now thinking I'm going to shorten this from the thirteen chapters I'd planned to ten, which I think is the minimum I can get away with to finish the plot. There hasn't been much interest from readers and I'd really like to get it done before the new series starts.

SHSHSHSH

_"Now I live off the mirrors and smoke_

_It's a joke, a fix, a lie."_

The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver, Elbow, 2008.

SHSHSHSH

**Track 7 – The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver**

Sherlock Holmes did not sulk.

He was quite incapable of such a feat; sulks were for adolescents and those without the ability to engage in rational thought. Nonetheless, he gazed moodily down at the city hundreds of feet below him, a sprawling web of orange streetlights that contrasted painfully against the night. Despite the darkness, his eyes couldn't help but pick out every irritating detail that told him it wasn't the one he wanted to see.

Sherlock's current hiding place was rather a good one, if he said so himself. He was sitting in the cab of a vast tower crane in Geneva, where it was being used in the construction of a large office building. Well, nine to five it was; since the local time was currently four twenty three a.m. the building site was quite abandoned save for a couple of security guards (who a man of Sherlock's considerable talents had no difficulty in slipping past).

Those talents had proved invaluable in the past two and a half years; in that time, Sherlock Holmes had managed to bring down over ninety percent of Moriarty's once vast criminal empire.

_Well, no; not Sherlock Holmes, per se. I haven't spoken or even heard my own real name since I left Mycroft's car at St Pancras to board the Eurostar with six fake passports and fifty thousand Euros in my overnight bag. I've been Mark and Stephen and Gregoire and Ben and even Sieger, but I haven't for one moment been _Sherlock.

_Oh, it's kept me alive, for certain. I know Moriarty's last remaining lieutenant, his faithful assassin Sebastian Moran, has his doubts about my death. If he didn't, he wouldn't be keeping such a frighteningly close watch on John. _

_Fortunately, tracking a master of disguise with numerous impeccable false documents and large quantities of hard cash across four continents would have been a challenge for Jim himself, and his lackey is nowhere near as intelligent. Dangerous, yes, but in the same way a rhinoceros is dangerous; get close enough or loud enough to frighten it and it will savagely disembowel you. But move quietly, draw a trap around it, box it in so it can't charge… and the big dumb beast will be powerless. I can't help but wonder if that's how Moriarty recruited him. The more I've learned about Jim, and by now I think it's everythng there is to know, the more of myself I've seen in him; until I simply started putting myself in his shoes every time I was without a lead. _

_Would John recognise me if he passed me in the street, I wonder? I don't even remotely resemble the man he knew any more. Can't wear anything similar to my favourite coat from back home, too distinctive in a crowd; I have to make do with hoodies. My hair's too short, bleached blonde and I have to smother it with product to hide the natural curl. I've been wearing blue coloured contacts and latex facial changers for so long I've almost forgotten how I look without them. _

_And I've travelled the world alone. Odd, how before I met John this expedition would have seemed like my idea of heaven and now… oh, it hurts. It burns in my brain, every waking moment, the cold at my shoulder where he always followed, one step behind. I never had to look to know he was there; to know that he'd follow me gladly into the very jaws of death._

_Which was precisely why I had to begin this elaborate charade in the first place._

Sherlock had hoped that the view would help distract him from his lingering depression amid the utter boredom of waiting for Mycroft's call, but having it shoved in his face that he was hundreds of miles from home rather cancelled out the distraction. From that height, he could already see the first blush of dawn beginning to lighten the Eastern horizon, muting the harsh, artificial orange glow of the city.

His heart clenched in his chest as the memory of another dawn unfurled unrelentingly behind his eyes.

The case had been a minor one; an investigation into a rather ingenious money laundering operation which used a charity shop run by some very sharp little old ladies to legitimise stolen goods and drug money_. _

_Really, it was almost a shame to have them arrested; although Mrs Merryweather, grandmother of four, did utilise her knee on a thoroughly deserving Detective Inspector Dimmock in a way that resulted in additional charges of resisting arrest and assault. He's _never_ going to live that one down; he probably still has the drawer full of wool and knitting needles that _mysteriously_ appeared in his office after the incident. _

It had only taken one night of staking out the back of the shop to collect all the evidence they needed; and then Sherlock and John had walked towards home, laughing and joking in the predawn light. They were halfway across the near-deserted Millennium Bridge when John paused, turning to face the sun just emerging above the crowded London skyline.

The rising sun had caught in his greying mousy hair, turning it into a halo of deepest gold that seemed to glow from within. His weatherbeaten skin, still tanned from the harsh climate of Afghanistan, was smoothed by the kiss of the sunlight into flawless perfection. His eyes slid shut in pleasure as the dawn warmed his face.

Just for that moment, John Watson had been a creature from another world; untouchable, unmarked by the harshness of reality. Sherlock hadn't dared do more than stare for fear his companion would evaporate into mere photons.

And then John had opened his eyes and smiled; the creases had reappeared around his eyes, his boyish dimples ruining the smoothness of his cheeks… but the glow remained. And something in the consulting detective's abdomen turned a somersault.

"Been a long time since I watched a sunrise without a gun or a scalpel in my hands," John said lightly. "Can breakfast wait a few minutes?"

"Of course," Sherlock had managed, after a pause that was slightly too long. "It will be hours before we can report our findings to the police, anyway."

The pair had turned to lean on the railing, John still soaking in the rays as if he were photosynthesising.

"Amazing, isn't it?" He said.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock managed, certain his brain was experiencing a serious malfunction and wondering why he honestly didn't mind much.

"The sunrise. It happens every day and most of us don't even notice. The Earth turns and whizzes round the sun and we never so much as think about it."

"Does it?" The consulting detective replied absently, distracted by the way the light caught and shimmered in the five o'clock shadow on John's cheeks. "Seems inefficient."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock; I'm not falling for that," The doctor snorted. "You've got a brain the size of a planet; you can probably calculate the radius of the Earth just from looking at the horizon."

"My brain is a perfectly average size; it is merely a significantly more advanced model than most. Besides, I don't need to know about the sun; it's never committed a crime."

"My god…" John's jaw dropped. "You're serious? You honestly didn't know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

"Is it important?"

"Important? Sherlock, it's _the solar system_!"

The following argument had sufficiently annoyed and distracted Sherlock that he and John were barely speaking by the time they got to Scotland Yard. But he had never forgotten that image of John glowing, so unearthly in the dawn.

The next time he'd seen John look like that, shining silver in the moonlight on a Camden rooftop, so alight and brilliant and _John_, Sherlock's lips had been kissing him before his mighty brain had even contemplated the idea of doing so.

Lost in his memories, Sherlock was almost too late to avoid the vital phone call going to voicemail. He fumbled it to his ear just in time.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock answered his brother, the implied insult automatic.

"Are you going to ask me that every time you answer your phone, or should I start delegating these calls to Harmony?" Mycroft drawled in response. They never used one another's names in these rare contacts; despite all possible precautions, there was always the chance that someone had found a way to listen in. And unlike 'John,' 'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock' were hardly common or inconspicuous names.

"Only if you want me to tell her all about Sadie Miller and the jelly babies."

"You've been holding that anecdote over my head for a quarter of a century," his brother chided grumpily. "Really; I would expect a little more originality from you."

"But it's such a _good _one. She'll never be able to look at a jelly baby again without giggling."

"Try it, and I might just let slip to a certain doctor exactly what you did to Aunt Margery's budgerigar when you were seven."

"That was a perfectly valid scientific experiment!"

"I doubt the budgie would agree," Mycroft drawled. "And neither, I suspect, would John."

"Have we proved our own identities sufficiently to get on with this yet, or must we keep up this ridiculous back and forth of embarrassing childhood incidents?" Sherlock snapped back in irritation.

"I think that should do, my dear brother. Our mutual friend has left Shanghai and left no fewer than eight false trails to various cities all over the world. His actual destination is in fact Boston, Massachusetts, but there remain a number of loose ends to tie up in China. Use passport D and your contact's codename will be Zhizhu."

"A bit of a risky one, don't you think?"

"Not at all. After all, who better to catch one spider than another?"

"Any signs of activity in London?"

"Nothing beyond the usual. If you wanted to know how John is doing, you only had to ask."

"I never even mentioned him," Sherlock snapped, just slightly too quickly.

"Ah; my mistake, of course. I merely thought you might be interested in the latest twist in his relationship with the lovely Sarah, but obviously not…"

Sherlock wondered for a second if the crane had broken; his stomach certainly felt like it was plunging the hundreds of feet to the ground below.

"Are they…" His throat felt like it was full of hot cotton wool; he cleared it and tried again. "Did he ask her…"

"No; you may breathe a sigh of relief," Mycroft took pity on his brother and answered before he could finish choking out the dreaded question. "There are no wedding bells in the air. Quite the opposite, in fact; John has moved out, likely permanently, from my observations. I suspect it was a mutual decision, since they seem relatively amicable."

"I always said that woman was an _idiot_," Sherlock said disdainfully, wondering where the sudden flood of warmth in his sternum had come from.

"I believe she merely gave up on what she had known for some time was a lost cause. The last straw, as I understand it, was the night he played truant from work to wander the streets; it rather disrupted my usual routine to have to pick him up from a cemetery before seven a.m. on a Saturday morning."

Sherlock was silent. _Oh, John_… _if there had been any other way… _

"This needs to be over soon, for both your sakes," Mycroft continued, a hint of command dropping into his voice. "He is not dealing well with your absence."

"I'm hardly dawdling for the fun of it," the younger Holmes snapped. "And do you honestly think he'll deal _better _with my reappearance?" The belligerent tone of the words belied the anxiety behind them.

Mycroft paused to consider before replying, in a voice carefully levelled for Sherlock's benefit. His brother was pathetically grateful; if Mycroft, of all people, had tried to sugar his words with emotion of any kind it would have made them absolutely impossible to believe.

"If there is one thing this exercise has taught me about that man, it is that his devotion to you is truly remarkable," he said slowly. "And if there is one thing I know about you, baby brother, it is that when you want something, you will stop at nothing to get it." Abruptly, he became businesslike again. "I'll contact you again in three weeks, same time. Don't do anything John wouldn't approve of."

"I won't if you won't," Sherlock answered absently. His mind had fixated on a mental image of John, his John, leaning heavily on a cane he didn't need as he stood alone by an empty tomb, while the man he grieved for was alive and well hundreds of miles away. He barely noticed his brother hanging up.

High above the sleeping city, Sherlock Holmes pulled his legs up so that he could hug his bony knees to his chest, unconsciously making him lanky body as small as possible. And he remembered those brief, precious weeks when he'd had someone else to cling to…

John's stocky, solid form was not what would be conventionally considered to be either beautiful or impressive; two assumptions that confirmed for Sherlock that the vast majority of the global population were gibbering morons.

_Honestly; I'm surprised they're not all wandering about with their underwear on their heads wondering why people with big pants keep walking under buses. John is _glorious_. _

_Broad shoulders, still thick with muscle even though he's not played rugby seriously in years. Firm chest sprinkled with silk-fine blonde hair, belly softening away from army life and close to too many takeaways. His arms, short and strong, fit _around my scrawny body_ like they were made to measure, the left around my waist to hold me close as the right curls around my upper torso to sink his fingers into my hair._

_I hadn't been held for the sake of it since I was about three and started wriggling out of Mummy's arms, but John… seemed to relish my proximity. It wasn't about sex, although I wouldn'tve objected; it was both simpler and more complex than that. John Watson is a man of action, so when he wanted to show me he cared, that he knew me and understood me and wanted to be close to me anyway, he just wrapped his arms around me and held tight. _

_I never got bored in John's arms. Sometimes I actually dozed off; he was always ridiculously pleased when that happened. _

_And there was that day when those warm arms saved my life_…

Another day, another relatively run of the mill puzzle centring around the London 2012 Olympic Park building site and a fairly grizzly murder. What was not so average was the guilty scaffolder they'd been in pursuit of managing to shove the World's Only Consulting Detective off the roof of an eleven-storey building.

Fortunately, Sherlock's wildly flailing arms managed to wrap around a scaffolding pole and he clung to it like a limpet, body penduluming wildly off the side of the building as he searched for a foothold.

"John!" He yelled, with all the breath he could muster. "_John!"_ His partner had been left far behind in the chase as they climbed ladders and scaled scaffolding; being shorter, less agile and with a weak shoulder, there was no hope of him keeping pace with the lanky Sherlock and the desperate criminal they were pursuing.

Sherlock heard an answering shout; but whatever John had actually said was lost in the wind and the blood pounding in his ears. He could feel his grip slipping; this high up, the wind alone felt strong enough to rip his tenuous hold from the pole and send him plummeting to the ground.

His mind, of course, began calculating it's own terminal velocity and the amount of force with which his skull would connect with the solid concrete below. It then went on to assess the likely state of the rest of Sherlock's body when subjected to the same treatment; 'smithereens_,_'was a fairly accurate summation.

Just as Sherlock felt gravity begin to exert its inevitable influence on his body, a well calloussed, heavily tanned hand shot over the edge and latched onto his coat collar like a vice.

"I just… can't take… you anywhere, can I?" John puffed out, very red in the face from his exertions to make it up the building in time to save Sherlock. He'd thrown himself flat on his stomach to get enough stability to help his partner up.

Sherlock started to smile… and promptly lost his grip.

He dangled helplessly in midair, almost strangled as the wind started to spin his body around the fixed point that was John's hand fisted in the heavy fabric. Sherlock's rescuer jerked violently towards the brink as the sudden weight began to drag him inexorably towards the edge, inch by inch.

"Christ… Sherlock… quick… give me your hand…"

John reached down with his left arm even as the right gripped ever tighter into his flatmate's coat, but the old injury to his shoulder prevented the arm extending far enough over his head to be in reach. Horror and fear and terrible, overwhelming guilt shone from John's expressive features as he realised his disability was about to cost Sherlock his life.

_Of course, being John, he completely disregarded the fact that he was equally at risk; because I knew there was no point whatsoever in trying to persuade him to let me fall to save himself. Besides, we wouldn't even have been in that position if I hadn't been stupid enough to let a builder who couldn't even plan a decent murder throw me off a building._.. _It was my fault, and it was going to kill us both..._

And then miraculously, as he slipped down, Sherlock's prehensile toes found a foothold at last. He managed to spin himself back against the wind, the foot taking some of his weight and saving himself from strangulation or worse as his hands scrambled for purchase on the smooth scaffold pole. Meanwhile, John had managed to hook an ankle around a support prop and their combined efforts finally halted their slow slide towards the concrete below.

Somehow, Sherlock struggled up onto the platform where John was lying flat on his stomach, his grasp still immovable from the coat as he helped as best as he could. Mostly, he just lay still and held tight while Sherlock climbed over him. At last, they lay side by side on the filthy, splintered planks, pressed together from toe to shoulder to feel one another's presence in solid flesh and body heat. Both were shaking slightly as the adrenaline of their narrow escape wore off.

"Next time I nag you about your eating habits, you have a 'get out of row free' card," John managed. "If you were any heavier…"

"We would both be dead," Sherlock answered, with certainty. "Because you wouldn'tve let me go even if you had to bend the laws of physics to do so."

"Bloody right; and I'd kick Albert Einstein's arse if he said different."

They both considered this image for a moment.

In perfect sync, the pair started to giggle uncontrollably as they clung together high above their city, turning into one another for more contact.

After a couple of minutes, the hysterical tears of laughter became those of relief, soon followed by desperate kisses. Sherlock rolled on top of John and for a while, they stopped caring where they were.

When the euphoria had worn off a bit, Sherlock dared to ask a question as John's fingers combed gently through his wildly mussed curls. "When you were holding onto me, a few minutes ago…" He began cautiously. "Your lips were moving. What did you say?"

"I thought you could lip read?"

"I can; but not when the lips in question are pressed against my neck. Although, if you were willing to take part in a series of experiments…"

"Your neck, my lips? Very willing. Much better than severed heads in the fridge."

"Flattered as I am, you haven't answered my question, John."

"I was saying… When I saw you hanging there from two floors below, all I could think was 'please, God, let him live.' When I finally had you safe, I was just… saying thanks."

"You are aware that I have no belief in a higher power, and indeed find it offensive to my logical, scientific mind that others do…"

"Well, I can't say I'm much of a believer either; but in life and death situations, the words are just… there."

"Curious. It seems a universal facet of human nature to ask, even if we do not believe there is anyone to answer. In that same moment, I was thinking exactly the same thing."

Almost three years later, alone in the cab of a tower crane as the heavenly disc of the rising sun peeked over the Swiss horizon, Sherlock Holmes dared to ask again.

SHSHSHSH

The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver

.

_Gotta get out of TV_

_Just pick a point and go_

_The ticker tape tangles my feet_

_As I search for a face that I know_

_Come on, tower crane driver_

_There's not so far to go._

_.  
><em>

_I must have been working the ropes_

_When your hand slipped from mine_

_Now I live off the mirrors and smoke_

_It's a joke, a fix, a lie_

_Come on, tower crane driver_

_Oh so far to fall._

_.  
><em>

_Send up a prayer in my name_

_Just the same they _

_Say I'm on top of my game_

_Dwindle gentle rose_

_Send up a prayer in my name._

SHSHSHSH

Did the dangling from scaffolding scene work for you? I thought some of the description was a bit awkwardly worded.

Let me know what you thought.


End file.
